I believe Kurt would love some slow, lazy sex first thing in the morning.
The hesitant sunlight is yet to ripen, and sounds of the imminent routine are still muffled, tucked away in the mansion's depths. It's a day for respite, and you're both drunk with sleep: eyes foggy, barely seeing, heavy limbs awkward and numbed, and all the nooks and crannies of your bodies seeping warmth under the stuffy duvet.
Such a vulnerable state when the mind still can't quite cross the border between blissful non-existence and sharpened awareness. The state that makes you move on instinct rather than cognizance, and Kurt thinks it's a beautiful thing — that his first instinct is to search for you and yours is to yield to him.
He finds you blind, guided only by the scent of your skin and the deep-rooted certitude that you cannot be anywhere else if not here, and his cock is still soft when he does so. The feel of unkempt fur between his thighs as it slides against the sensitive fold of your buttocks is toe-curling, a stimulus you respond to just as readily as you do subliminally. Hips move — yours and his in tandem — and through the lifting veil of slumber you seek to catch Kurt's dry, warm breath on your lips.
Afterwards, it is never possible to know for certain who is to blame. Was it the cheeky devil's unconscious scheme all along, or did you simply provoke it with an accidental caress?
Either way it always ends up the same: with your first comprehensible thought being the physical recognition of his cock as it slides inside, inch after leisurely inch, right to the hilt. The second one prompts that it’s uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant, and soon you’re awake at last, sleep still clinging to eyelashes, yet all the thoughts lie scattered all over your mind because Kurt has woken too — and now he’s moving not with intuitive probing but with honed purpose.
Swiftly the sheets turn damp with the sweat of your mingling, sticky and obscene, and the fur of his chest traps the warmth of your body, air swelling with heat almost unbearable. You have to throw the duvet off to let your skin breathe, and the squelch of your joining together rings deafening in the sleepy quietness of the room, seemingly loud enough to disturb the whole mansion with its vulgarity. And yet that's barely a concern to either of you, because your core pulses with the rhythm of your fluttering heartbeat and Kurt throbs, voice tightening, tail thrashing against the mattress with frantic thump-thumps, your own breath stalling in the middle of your throat, fingers clenched in convulsions and—
You don't feel him spilling inside of you, not really, but it's giddying nonetheless — the way he has to keep close, buried within your cunt, so as not to do any more damage to the poor linen. Gentle wind shuffles the curtains, a soft rustle against the wooden floors, and nips at your tender, clammy thighs. The clock on the bedside table reads 7:34, four minutes past the usual alarm that didn't ring, and although the hallway is flooding with noise now — steely footsteps, wolf yips, something clattering, someone laughing — your eyelids fall shut again. And Kurt, softening slowly inside of you, one protective arm draped over your form, rumbles deep in his chest, a roll of thunder caught within ribcage, and you allow the low purr of his contentment to soothe you back to sleep better than any lullaby could ever do.
